


Deluge

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wincest. the night before sam leaves for stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deluge

“So you’re going, then?”

Sam’s in the bathroom, jacket on, brushing his fucking teeth like it’s just the start of another fucking day. Dean watches him from the doorway, eyes skirting the whole of him; the carefully washed jeans, new; the t-shirt he picked out special, a thing he’s never worn before. Sam sighs into the sink, and it echoes off the porcelain.

“Dean.” He says, exasperatedly, and Dean takes that as a cue to walk in.

“Fuck, Sammy.  _Fuck.”_ He mutters, and Sam closes his eyes. He spits into the sink before he turns, and wipes his mouth free of foam.

“What do you want me to say?” he says tiredly, and Dean eyes him with the coolest, most detached gaze Sam has ever seen on his face.

“I don’t know. Sorry, maybe? Sorry I’m a fucking quitter?”

“I’m not quitting.” Sam says softly, looking down, and Dean crowds closer, gets up in his face, hands balled into fists at his sides, then clutching Sam’s shoulders as he leans despondently against the sink.

“What the fuck do you call it, then?”

“I’m going to live my  _life,_ Dean.” Sam says plaintively. “I don’t want to fight.” He says, and Dean chuckles bitterly. Sam’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze downcast. “Don’t be like this.”

“Fuck you.” Dean spits, face closer to Sam’s, their noses almost touching. He growls the words onto Sam’s face. “Fuck you, man, just-“ he grunts. “You’re gonna leave me alone, then.” He nods to himself. “You know what? Fine. Fine.” And then he does what Sam never expects, and kisses him on the mouth.

For a moment they’re both frozen; pressed together, Dean’s fury radiating through him like heat; he’s trembling so hard that Sam can  _feel_  it.

And then Sam digs a hand into his hair; tilts his face, opens his mouth – and kisses him back.

It’s desperate and hungry and Dean bites him a few times, and it’s not nice, not at all, except that it keeps them together, and it’s warm, and Dean’s hands are careful, if possessive, fisted in his shirt.

He pulls back first, and they look at each other. “Dean.” He says again, voice coming ragged, and Dean closes his eyes, and leans up, and brushes their lips together again.

“Fuck, Sammy, I don’t –“ he steps back, horrified, his hands leaving Sam’s shirt last. “Fuck.” He says, again, and touches his mouth with his hand. “Sammy.” And the word comes out so soft that Sam almost doesn’t hear it. It bounces off the tiles in the bathroom; that tiny word, spoken so carefully.

“I have to go. You have to understand.” He says, and his hands are shaking where they grip the sink. Dean is still touching his mouth.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” But then Dean is on him again, and Sam is letting him, opening his mouth, brushing his tongue against Dean’s bottom lip, lifting his hands to fist them in his hair, thumbs curled around his ears. When he pulls away the second time, their faces are wet. “What’m I gonna do without you?” Dean asks him quietly, and Sam laughs, and horror and worry plunges through his gut.

“I’ll call.”

“Fuck you. No you won’t.”

“I promise. I swear.” Sam tells him, and knows even as he says it that it’s a lie. Dean’s crying, and it’s Sam’s fault, and the only way to shut him up from sobbing is to kiss him again, but even as Sam draws close it feels  _wrong._

“What the fuck are we doing?” Sick heat unfurls in his gut; his hands clench in Dean’s hair. “Dean, I have to – I have to pack.” He says, and Dean steps back, lets him go. Moves out of the way when Sam pushes past him to leave the bathroom, like his touch will burn; like they’ll stick together.

The rest of the night they revolve around each other; Sam packs, Dean sits alternately in the room and on the edge of the bathtub, his head in his hands. They don’t talk, really.

In the morning, when it’s finally time for him to go, they stand opposite each other; Sam’s bags in the doorway, a cloth one hefted over his shoulder.

There’s something there, between them; something living, like a creature was birthed between their lips the night before; something unholy, something vigilant. They swallow simultaneously, mirrors of one another, and Dean opens the door for him, to let him leave.

“Call.” Says Dean, before he goes. “Fuckin’ – write me, or something.”

Sam laughs through his tears. “You don’t even have a fucking address.”

“Write anyway.” Dean’s eyes are blurry, but fixed on his. “Don’t lose me.”

“I won’t.”  


End file.
